


Stress Relief

by Sarah_Vincent1506



Series: AskPolyLosersClub Oneshots [6]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 15:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Vincent1506/pseuds/Sarah_Vincent1506
Summary: 'Stanley Uris wonders vaguely if he ever does not feel stressed'Core Four (Bill, Stan, Richie, Eddie). 17000 words of pure smut, BABEY.Linked with the AskPolyLosersClub ask blog on Tumblr, in which the ADULT Losers are in a polyamorous relationship.A fic request for 'noahschnapp'. Hope it's what you wanted!!!





	Stress Relief

Stanley Uris wonders vaguely if he ever does _not_ feel stressed, as he pulls his _impressively_ expensive car into the driveway of their even more _impressively_ expensive home, tensely rolling his head to one side and then the other in an attempt at relieving some of the tension in his neck.

It’s Friday afternoon, and ordinarily Stan wouldn’t even countenance the idea of leaving work early, but he has had a burning migraine for the better part of the morning, throbbing in his temples and pulsing behind his eyes, threatening far worse if he allowed it to continue for the rest of the day. Already, he is beginning to feel nauseous, and there’s a certain cold, clamminess to the palms of his hands that’s evident against the steering wheel as he flexes his fingers.

Stan can handle the pain. God knows he has had his fair share of headaches and migraines and all other manner of general stress-related tensions; it hardly bothers him at all anymore. What Stan finds really _irksome_ is the agitated discomfort that always comes along with it. The bottom line is, stress makes Stan irritable, makes him feel…’aggressive’ isn’t quite the word, ‘turbulent’, perhaps, as though the slightest provocation could cause his composure to instantly _crack_.

He feels like a tightly-wound spring, as he parks his car, reversing, and straightening up, reversing, and straightening up, and reversing again, because he knows without looking that the side of his Mercedes is not completely perpendicular to the edge of the driveway, where it meets the grass. Normally, he can get it right the first time, but today, his fingers are not steady on the wheel, his foot tense against the pedal, his mind is elsewhere. After no fewer than _seventeen_ attempts, he turns off the engine, sitting motionless and silent for a while as he contemplates the repercussions of driving his car head-first into the side of the house, just to teach it a lesson.

As soon as he’s inside, he feels a sense of relief that there’s clearly no one home. Even in such a large building, spanning over three floors, it’s surprisingly easy to detect another presence. Or, perhaps, in Stan’s case, the six other ‘presences’ that could be are just incredibly easy to detect. He takes off his suit jacket on the way into the downstairs bathroom closest to him, carrying it over his arm as he opens the cabinet on what will undoubtedly be an easy search for pills that dull pain. There’s a box, in there, labelled with Eddie’s tiny writing, as there is in _every_ other bathroom in the house. Stan takes two aspirin and swallows them dry, watching himself in the mirror for a while and pulling bitterly with his fingertips at the very fine creases at the outer edge of his eye.

In the kitchen, he hangs his jacket neatly over the back of a chair, smoothing out the folds in the shoulders with his hands, before moving to set up the coffee maker. There’s a calm, musical ‘_beep_’ as it begins its work, and Stan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as he waits, wondering how long he will have to himself before anyone else comes home and breaks the blissful silence.

There are several effective methods for relieving stress, and Stan can think of one, in particular, that would benefit from having several hours undisturb-

“STANLEY!”

Stan jumps, opening his eyes slowly and gripping his hands so hard against the edge of the marble countertop that he believes, just for a second, he could break it.

“_Richie_.”

Stan doesn’t turn around. There’s a lot of noise, and movement behind him, the distinctive sound of Richie’s holdall hitting the kitchen floor, and then a large body against his back, long arms clad in black leather snaking around his waist. Richie’s stubbled cheek presses in against his own, and he smells of a strange mixture of expensive cologne and cheap beer as he kisses Stan’s cheek and his jaw. Stan leans away.

“Have you been drinking? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

Richie doesn’t take the hint, or, perhaps he does, and just doesn’t care. Stan thinks it’s probably the latter. It usually is.

“No! No, I had a beer on the plane!” There’s a sharp gasp, “You will _never_ guess who I met at the airport!”

“I will never _care_, either.”

Richie releases his grip and Stan reluctantly turns around. Richie looks elated, kind of grubby, like he hasn’t showered in a couple of days, but mostly surprisingly…good? Stan wonders if this is the same way some people crave greasy fast-food when they’re stressed.

“Danny _fucking_ DeVito!” Richie laughs as he holds his hands out, awaiting Stan’s impressed reaction. Obviously, that doesn’t come. “Danny DeVito, Stan! _The_ Danny DeVito!”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Why aren’t you freaking out right now?! I just met National treasure Danny DeVito and he knew who I was! Do you realise how famous Danny DeVito is, Stan?”

“_You’re_ ‘famous’.” The audible quotation marks aren’t lost on Richie. His arms fall to his sides and he raises his eyebrows.

“Okay what’s up _your_ ass today?” Richie glances at his watch, “And why aren’t you at work? It’s Friday.” A pause, “isn’t it?”

“I came home early.”

“Why? Did your office burn down? Did the building collapse?” A dramatic gasp, “Did someone _die?_ Was it your assistant with the weird eye thing?”

“I have a migraine.” Stan turns back to the coffee machine, which has finished brewing and pouring black coffee into a small mug. He takes it and holds it in the palm of one hand, finding the warmth against his cold skin somewhat comforting.

“Ohhh, so you’ve _really _got something up your ass today. And definitely not in the good way.” Richie smirks; Stan can hear it in his voice without looking. He knows that Richie is watching him. “So, what, you came home to whack one out while no-one’s here? I get that, totally relatable. Great stress-reliever.”

Stan looks at him indignantly, “I’m thirty-nine years old. I came home to take some aspirin, and probably a nap.”

Richie looks smug as he stares back at him.

“Stanley, I have known you for almost thirty-seven years, most of them intimately, and you still genuinely think you can just lie to my face like that? Like, right to my _incredibly handsome_ face?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Richie chuckles softly, and moves to lean back against the counter beside Stan, sides pressed together. Stan doesn’t move, only watches him carefully.

“Remember that night after Bill had his first book signing? Must’ve been…more than ten years ago. It was at the Brooklyn Public Library.”

“Of course I remember.”

“Yeah, and right after that, we went to the Brooklyn Tap House to celebrate, and you never drink beer, but you said you wanted to try some famous beers from different countries. Do you remember that?”

“Vaguely,” Stan takes a sip of his coffee, and Richie snorts.

“You were_ so_ drunk that night, and you kept standing up and tapping the side of your glass with a fork like we were at a wedding!” Richie continues to talk through laughter, “So you could make these embarrassing speeches about Bill!”

“I don’t recall.”

“Everyone in the bar kept staring at us because you were being so fucking weird, man!”

“I really don’t remember.” _He does._

“Okay, but _this_ part, you’ll remember!” Richie is even closer to him, now, but Stan only looks at him, “After we got home, we stayed up _all_ night talking. And you told me that you had been so stressed all day because you were worried about the signing going well for Bill, and about people showing up, that you yelled at one of your co-workers and made her cry.”

Stan almost winces at the memory.

“And you said that whenever you get stressed, you get headaches, yeah, but mostly you feel it in your stomach. You said it was like there’s a knot there…or a spring…and it’s wound up so tight that you feel like – and I quote – you can’t _release_ by yourself.”

“_It_.”

“What?”

“I feel like I can’t release _it_ by myself.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

“Are you denying that you said that?”

“I’m not denying that I said anything, I’m just saying that you’re mis-quoting me.”

“Okay then,” Richie’s mouth is _very_ close to his ear, now, “Do you remember saying that – and I definitely one hundred percent quote this, because this is not the kind of thing you forget someone saying to you – you feel like to _really_ de-stress, it has to be _fucked_ out of you?”

Stan looks to the side as he takes another mouthful of his coffee, and his eyes meet Richie’s as he swallows it slowly.

“I may have said that.”

Richie sniggers as he nods, and he moves over now to trap Stan against the counter between his arms, “In that case, I think it is my duty as your loving - and may I say devilishly handsome - _husband_,” Richie lifts his left hand and wiggles his tattooed finger, “To accommodate you. Strictly for your benefit, of course, none of this is for me I get nothing out of this at all.”

Stan can’t help the smirk that twitches at the corners of his lips, then, and he lifts his coffee mug to his mouth to try to conceal it, but he ought to know better than anyone that he can’t hide anything from Richie.

“_See?_ You can’t hide _shit_ from me, Stanley, I know _everything_ about you.” Richie is looking into Stan’s eyes admiringly, now, “So, what’ll it be? Just say when and where, baby.”

Stan slowly lowers his coffee mug onto the counter, never breaking the eye contact between them.

“How about _here_ and _now?_”

Richie laughs mischievously, “In the kitchen, huh? I won’t tell Eddie if you won’t,” He leans in for Stan’s lips, but Stan stops him with a hand firmly around the base of Richie’s throat. He’s not squeezing, just yet, but he has good enough of a grip on him that it’s threatening, as he steps forward, walking Richie with him, backing him the few steps it takes to get to the island counter. Richie doesn’t look afraid, or in any way distressed. Quite the opposite, actually. He looks_ fiendishly_ excited.

Once the predator, now the prey. Suddenly their positions are completely reversed.

Richie feels the handle of the built-in oven against the backs of his legs. Stan backs him just far enough that he has to brace his hands against the edge of the counter and lean back a little, that he has no stability or leverage in their position.

“You know, choking does it a _little_ for me, but not as much as it does for you, how about we-“ Stan’s hand moves from Richie’s throat to remove his glasses, “-Okay. I see where you’re going, here, trying to make me all vulnerable and shit. But Stan, how _ever_ will I admire you, now?” His eyesight isn’t so poor that he can’t obviously see Stan when they’re this close, but there’s a definite, soft blur to his features, “I gotta say, I prefer the 4K version. I like lookin’ at all those tiny little flecks of gold in your eyes. Is that weird?” Even through the blur, Richie sees that tiny twitch at the corner of Stan’s lips, as he tucks Richie’s glasses neatly into his own shirt pocket, “Stan, is that weird?”

Stan doesn’t respond, only leans in close, pressing body, chest, forehead to Richie’s, resting his hands atop his, too, against the marble. He tilts his head a little, as though to kiss him, but the moment Richie responds, Stan moves slightly away. He does this again, two, three, four times, moving further away the more Richie attempts to catch his lips, watching his frustration with a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Aw, c’mon, man, just _one_ kiss!”

Stan dodges his lips again, glancing down at Richie’s with a smirk.

“Just one little kiss for your incredibly famous and successful husband and long-time best friend, who just got back from working hard all week travelling across the country and bringing joy into people’s lives!”

“’_Working_?’”

“_Yes_, working! Ya dick!”

“Telling jokes is ‘working’, now?”

“It’s my_ job!_ Don’t be a-” Stan is smiling, now, getting those little crinkles at the corners of his eyes that Richie knows to mean that Stan’s smile is genuine, “You’re an asshole,” he laughs.

The laugh is caught mid-way, though, when Stan dips in to press his lips firmly against the front of Richie’s throat, kissing and sucking the skin to redness, just short of bruising. Dark curls brush up against his chin.

“_Oh_, I take it all back, you’re a goddess.”

Stan’s lips find their way to every slightly sweaty, slightly stubbled inch of Richie’s neck, beneath his ears, right around the sides where his hairline begins, just beneath the crumpled ‘V’ of his garish shirt collar. Stan’s hands are still over Richie’s, holding down fidgeting digits that are more than just a little eager to touch any part of Stan they can get to. He’d like nothing more than to grip at his slender waist with a hunger he knows Stan would react to, grubby fingertips creasing the crisp, white material of his Ralph Lauren shirt. He’d act mad, but, in reality, Richie knows that’s Stan’s main weakness; that fantasy in his head of being completely and utterly degraded and defiled…messed up, _fucked_ up, having all of his control stripped away and in the hands of someone who’s going to use it to fully unravel him.

It’s rare, but, Richie has had him like that before, a few times. Underneath him, face flushed, pupils blown wide, manicured fingers tearing at the sheets, begging and pleading with him in a high-pitched, _desperate_ voice Richie takes such possessive pleasure in knowing very few people will _ever_ hear from Stanley Uris.

He’s not sure if it’s that image, or the fact that Stan’s lips are now on his chest, unfastening his shirt, one button at a time as he follows their opening with his mouth, but he can feel blood pulsing distinctly to the south of his body. ‘_I may be almost forty, but I can still pop a boner in about ten seconds_,’ he thinks, with a chuckle. He’s not even sure whether that’s a good thing, or kinda depressing, at this point.

“When was the last time you took a shower?” Stan asks bluntly, when his mouth has reached Richie’s navel; he’s on his knees on the floor, now, and Richie can’t help the way his heart starts pounding in his chest when he sees him like that, even though they’ve done this a million times. He shrugs his leather jacket off his shoulders and allows it to fall to the kitchen floor. Stan’s eyes follow it’s journey, with a disapproving twitch of his left eyebrow.

“I dunno…three days ago?”

“That’s _disgusting_,” Stan drawls, but the look in his eyes as he’s looking up at him doesn’t seem as though he finds it disgusting, at all. Or…it does…_but it turns him on anyway? _Who knows. Stan is still kind of an enigma even to those who know him best.

“Yeah I know it’s totally gross-”

Stan’s lips return to Richie’s abdomen, and it’s slow, and teasing, but each time they move, Richie feels it like an electric pulse through his nervous system. _Fuck_, he’s getting pretty hard pretty fast. He hasn’t had sex in like…_five days_, and already he’s back in the body of a pre-teen who’s just discovered porn. Wow, that _is_ sad.

His hands are still braced against the counter; he doesn’t dare put them in Stan’s hair, the way he wants to. Stan doesn’t like that. It’s pretty unfair that someone with such luscious, grippable, pullable hair doesn’t like people touching it. If their situations were reversed, Richie would be _encouraging_ Stan to get his hands in there, tangle his fingers in and fucking rip it out of his scalp if that’s what he wanted.

“Don’t touch my hair,” Stan says suddenly, as though reading his mind, and Richie snorts, though he notices one of his hands is hovering above the counter, as though it was about to do just that, of it’s own volition. ‘_What the fuck am I supposed to do?_’ Richie thinks to himself, _‘Just have full autonomous control over my own limbs or something?’_

“_Si, Se__ñor_.”

Stan stops _immediately_, and looks up at him with a stern expression.

“Don’t do that voice.”

“Eddie likes it.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry and I love you, please keep going.” Richie holds his hands up defensively, “I don’t know why…”

“Because you’re an_ idiot_,” Stan responds venomously, although his hands are unbuckling Richie’s belt, now.

“Yes, exactly. I’m an idiot. I’m a gross, disgusting idiot,” he rambles, as he admires the way Stan’s pale, slender hands look contrasted against Richie’s black jeans, fingertips travelling across the folds in the fabric as though committing every stitch to memory, as though it might be important…as though any minor detail can be used to Stan’s advantage.

He does everything this way: carefully, thoroughly, all things considered and calculated. Richie thinks that if Stan were artistic like Bill, or Beverly, or even had _Ben’s_ skill with graphed paper, he’d be one of those people with the superhuman ability to draw an entire cityscape from memory.

Stan’s palm comes to rest around the obvious outline of Richie’s erection through the rough material.

“How old are you, fourteen? I’ve hardly touched you.”

“It’s not my fault you look so fucking sexy on your knees.”

Stan’s eyes snap up to meet Richie’s, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

But Richie knows otherwise.

Stan’s hands are quicker, now, as they unfasten button and zipper, and give a single, harsh _tug_ to the waistband of both jeans and underwear, so they’re resting much lower on his hips. Dextrous fingers slip inside, and Richie’s a few short strokes away from fully, no-turning-back-now erect.

He hisses, “_Fuck_ your hands are cold.”

Stan doesn’t respond this time, only continues languidly stroking at him until the heat of his palm matches the heat of Richie’s sticky skin, getting hotter by the second. With no lubrication, a slightly awkward angle, and the countertop and the oven door handle digging into his legs and his ass, it’s not the most mind-blowing handjob Richie’s ever had, but he’s certainly not complaining.

“Could you stand up so I can see you properly? ‘Cuz that would really speed things along. Not that I have a problem with _oh_-“

The pad of Stan’s thumb slides up to rub at the head of his cock, in slow, rough circles. It sends low, prickling throbs of pleasure through his groin.

“C’mon, talk to me, Stanley…you know the silence fucking kills me, man.”

Richie watches the smirk spread at Stan’s lips, but the silence continues, and Stan’s fingers curl tightly, once more, around his shaft, jerking him off so slowly the movement really couldn’t be considered _jerking_, at all.

“Oh, _fuck_, you’re the worst…but you’re the best…” Richie groans, knuckles beginning to go white against the edge of the counter, “But you’re the fucking _worst_.”

Stan’s eyes are on him, now, unblinking, dark and gorgeous but _dangerous_.

“_Please talk to me_.”

“Do you want me to _talk_,” Stan slides his hand away, until only his index finger is trailing down the underside of Richie’s shaft, tugging away the material of his underwear in its wake; his lips are so close, Richie can feel his breath against the sensitive skin at the tip of his dick, “Or, do you want me to-“

He’s interrupted by the sudden, unwelcome sound of classical piano music, accompanied by a buzzing from Stan’s trouser pocket. Richie recognises the ringtone at once, knows it’s Stan’s phone from the first two notes, even knows that the piece of music is called ‘Für Elise’, and it’s by Beethoven, because Stan has told him as much enough times, before. Richie doesn’t even get the chance to tell him to ignore it, or potentially make a joke (probably the latter), because Stan has answered it in a split second, professional that he is.

“Hello, Stanley Uris speaking.”

Richie mimes hanging himself, and Stan sees it, but there’s no reaction in his expression as he stands up straight. Nor does he react when Richie tries to unbutton Stan’s shirt, though he absently pushes his hands away.

“Yes, that is correct. Fourteen percent. All of the figures are in the folder.”

Now, Richie drops his head back, pretends to be asleep, and accompanies it with what he personally thinks are some pretty realistic snoring sound effects. When he lifts his head again, though, Stan doesn’t look impressed. Shockingly, he doesn’t look mad, either. In fact, he moves closer, presses their bodies together, sliding his hand down between them while looking Richie directly in the eyes.

“I handed it all over to my assistant before I left, today.”

Stan’s got his dick in his hand again, now, and Richie lets out a soft, playful laugh.

“The tall one.”

Richie doesn’t get much of a chance to prepare himself for this new game, though, because suddenly Stan’s going at it hard and fast, and his knees almost buckle.

“I don’t know, you would have to ask _her_.”

“_Fuck_,” Richie breathes, and even though it was quiet and the person at the other side of the phone couldn’t possibly have heard it, Stan gives him the _dirtiest_ look.

“No, I’m not coming back in today. I’ll be there first thing Monday morning.”

Stan clearly doesn’t lose focus on the conversation, but his gaze is fixed on Richie’s, faces inches apart, as he tightens his grip, and his eyes practically glint with desire when Richie’s lips part, even silently.

“I’m sure you can survive without me until then; that’s what I pay you for.”

Stan doesn’t relent for a second, even when Richie starts miming hanging the phone up slightly desperately. Nor when he curses again, slightly louder this time. Nor when Richie’s panting lips meet the left side of Stan’s neck, opposite to the side he’s holding the phone to, and start sloppily kissing at his skin.

“Okay, wonderful. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“_Hang up the damn phone, Stanley._” Richie hisses in his ear.

“Yes. Yes. We can talk about it then.”

“_I’m gonna come all over your fancy shirt_.”

Stan hangs up, then, without even saying ‘goodbye’, and Richie laughs, even when Stan’s hand instantly stills, “Over my dead body.”

“You want me to _come_ all over your dead body? Geez, Stan, even for you that’s sick.”

At that, Stan releases him, expression stony as Richie loudly sniggers. Stan slides his phone into his back pocket, then, and Richie thinks it’s a little strange; Stan _never_ puts his phone in his back pocket, he’s too paranoid – it always has to be at the front. And he was right to be concerned, because Stan wasn’t putting anything _into _his back pocket at all, he was taking something _out_. And that ‘something’ was a heavy pair of metal handcuffs, which are binding Richie’s wrist to the handle of the oven before he can even register what’s happening.

“My _god_ you did that fast!”

Stan eyes him up and down with a smirk.

“Are you secretly a magician? You _gotta_ teach me how to do that, that was _crazy_ fast! Seriously you kinky little handcuff wizard, how did- wait, why did you have handcuffs in your pocket? Were you using these at work? I thought you were an accountant? Is ‘accountant’ a code word? Is all of the incredibly boring stuff just a front to put people off of wanting to know about your job? Are you actually all just living out your depraved sexual fantasies in a dungeon where everyone is wearing a sweater vest and has a receding hairline?”

“I keep them for emergencies.” Stan says bluntly, as though that’s normal.

“For _‘emergencies’_?” Richie scoffs, highly amused, “What kind of-”

There’s another distinctive ‘phone-buzzing’ sound, only, this time, it’s coming from _Richie’s_ pocket, not Stan’s. Richie reaches for it, but Stan, once more, is quicker, retrieving it from Richie’s jeans almost the second they hear it buzz.

“Who were you texting?” He asks coolly, quickly unlocking Richie’s phone with the passcode as though he knows it by heart. “_Eddie_,” he smirks, practically purring. Richie reaches out for his phone, but Stan steps back out of his reach, and Richie can’t move very far at all, with his hand cuffed to the oven.

Richie doesn’t seem all that bothered about it, though.

“What’d he say?”

“He’s on his way home. Sounds like he’s eager to see you.”

“Well, _duh_. Who wouldn’t be?”

“_Very_ eager.” Stan is scrolling back casually through the messages.

“It’s not like we were sexting or anything, that’s just how he types. All caps. No punctuation. Every text feels like I’m being threatened. I bet when he sends letters they’re like ransom notes.”

“Let’s get him home a little faster.” Stan presses in close to Richie’s side, even snaking an arm around his waist, and Richie instantly responds in kind, with his arm around Stan’s, watching the screen of his phone as Stan opens up the camera. He’s suddenly_ very_ aware of the fact that the lens is pointed directly at his still out-in-the-open and _very_ visible boner, and that it is _very_ much going to look as though Richie himself took the picture.

“Aww, he’s not gonna like that at all.” Richie muses in a slightly monotone fashion, but he makes no attempt whatsoever to stop it from happening.

“He doesn’t have to _like_ it,” Stan says matter-of-factly, as he takes a picture, “He just has to _think_ about it.”

Richie gasps in mock outrage, as he tucks himself back into his jeans and zips them up. He doesn’t bother with the button, “_Stanley!_ Are you trying to tell me that you’re taking advantage of his incredibly emotional and highly suggestible nature in order to coerce him into a three-way?”

“_Perhaps_.”

“Scandalous,” Richie murmurs, against Stan’s shoulder, as he nuzzles into it, watching the phone screen as Stan crops the photograph and alters the lighting, “Are you putting filters on my dick?”

“I’m trying to make it look more appealing. It’s not really working.”

“It looks _plenty_ appealing, Stanley, even _I _wanna get fucked by me.”

“Is there an ‘enlarge’ option?”

“Oh, fuck off!” Richie snickers, and Stan laughs, too.

Once he finally seems satisfied with the alterations he has made to the image, Stan promptly sends it to Eddie, with no accompanying message.

“Isn’t that super fucking weird? Just sending him a dick pic out of the blue with no context?”

“He’ll expect that sort of behaviour from _you_.”

“Touché.”

“And now, we wait.” Stan says fairly smugly, and before Richie can attempt to fill that waiting period with any sort of physical contact or ‘pre-Eddie’ foreplay, Stan steps away from him, completely out of his reach. He takes his abandoned coffee mug from the countertop, tips the remaining lukewarm contents into the sink, and rinses it out before he puts it in the dishwasher.

“So you’re just gonna leave me hanging until he gets here?”

“I’m sure you can handle it. You’re a big boy.”

Richie groans, though it trails off into a chuckle, “You are honestly the worst husband in the world. And the worst best friend.”

“Do you think Eddie has missed you?” Stan asks, suddenly, turning around to face him once more, and leaning casually back against the opposite counter. Richie knows instantly that he’s playing some sort of game, but the mention of Eddie’s name throws him off for a second. _Damn_, he’s weak when it comes to Eddie…he’s like his fucking kryptonite.

“Haven’t _you_ missed me?” Richie asks, trying to flip it on him, trying to play him at his own game, change the subject, switch things up.

It doesn’t work. _Of course_ Stan knows what he’s doing.

“I can answer that for you. He hasn’t stopped talking about you since you got on the plane.”

“Little weirdo…he’s like, so fucking obsessed with me,” Richie jokes, but curses the tiniest weakness in his voice that he knows Stan will have picked up on.

“You’re his favourite, you know?”

Richie snorts, “I’m everyone’s favourite.” _Bring it on, Stanley, I can play this game all day._

“No one can _fuck him _like you can.”

Okay, _that one_ catches him off guard.

“W…” Richie lets out a slightly amused, slightly exasperated breath, “Did- Did he say that?”

“He doesn’t have to.”

Richie can feel what could have potentially been a waning erection coming instantly back to life at the mere mention of Eddie. See? Kryptonite.

“Well, what can I say…I’m just a professional ass-”

“True,” Stan cuts in sharply, as though he predicted exactly what Richie was going to say, and just _had_ to get that little quip in.

“Nice.”

“Do you remember what he sounds like?”

“I’ve been away for five _days_, not five _years_.”

_Plus, I think about it all the fucking time._

“Doesn’t it sound good when he _screams_ your name?”

“RICHIE!”

“Oh, there he is,” Stan says nonchalantly.

“_He sounds mad_,” Richie whispers.

“_Good_.”

“RICHIE?! RICH, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

There’s a lot of noise from elsewhere in the house, surprisingly heavy-sounding footsteps for such a small person, and then the kitchen door swings open fast, smacking into the wall. Eddie is in the doorway, flustered cheeks and a crooked tie, clutching his cellphone in his hand, suit jacket hanging off his shoulders like he was in the process of taking it off as he raged through the front door.

“Rich, you’re back,” soft, slightly lovesick voice quickly yo-yos into, “you FUCKING MORON!” The way Eddie can fluctuate so violently through conflicting emotions never ceases to amaze, “I ALMOST CRASHED MY GODDAMN CAR! THE NOTIFICATION OF YOUR GROSS-”

There’s a sudden, silent pause, as Eddie seems to notice Stan, as though he didn’t before.

“Stan…”

“Wait, _‘gross’_?” Richie mumbles in the background.

“Welcome home.”

Eddie stays quiet for a long time, as though he completely forgot why he was mad in the first place. He looks back to Richie again, and once more, registers something he shockingly hadn’t picked up on, at first – his eyes meet the handcuffs holding Richie to the oven handle, and then to his state of half-undress, and the open button of his jeans. If brains had sound-effects, Eddie’s would be the connecting noise of old dial-up internet.

He barely notices Stan approaching him.

“Oh…okay. Yeah, that actually makes a lot of sense, now that I think about it.”

Stan’s hands are delicately straightening Eddie’s tie, now.

“You couldn’t take a picture that clear with your fucking shaky hands. You’re like a crack-addict.”

Richie points at him, “Hey! That’s _former_ Mr. Crack Addict to you!”

Stan lets out a soft hum of amusement, as he steps behind Eddie and slowly slides his jacket the rest of the way off his arms, hanging it tidily on a hook beside the door. Richie watches them fairly blankly, like he’s almost too focused on what might be happening, or might happen very soon, to pay attention to the conversation.

“That’s…mean,” he mutters absently.

Stan smirks at Richie over Eddie’s shoulder. He’s back behind him, now, and he rests his hands on Eddie’s waist to steer him further into the room, knowing full-well that Richie is watching his every move. Eddie is surprisingly easily led, both physically and otherwise.

“Were you guys seriously doing _that_ in the _kitchen_, of all places?!” Eddie snaps, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs irritably, “Have I not specifically told _all of you_ how I feel about that?! _Bodily fluids_ are-”

“Would you like a drink?” Stan asks calmly, and softly rubs his fingertips against the back of Eddie’s neck. They’re close enough to Richie, now, that he can see them well even without his glasses, but not close enough that he could touch either of them if he reached out.

Eddie winces away and shrugs him off, brow still furrowed as he rucks at his shirt sleeves (Eddie only ever wears long sleeves for work – they irritate him otherwise), “Okay, I am feeling _very_ upset right now. You can’t just _charm_ your way out of-”

“Here, let me.” Stan doesn’t back down, remaining placid and composed as he neatly folds up Eddie’s cuffs for him, one side after the other. Eddie’s posture has instantly softened, shortly followed by his expression.

“Oh…thanks.”

Richie scoffs, and rolls his eyes, though he’s still watching their every move. “Oh, I see what you’re doing there, Stanley. I see it,” He mutters, aloud, but more to himself than anything.

Eddie looks at Richie, but Stan quickly draws his attention back; he still has Eddie’s wrist, and he begins to rub his thumb in small circles into the heel of his palm.

“What are you doing?”

“You seem tense.” Eddie’s fingers flex reactively, and there’s a far gentler furrow in his brow, now, as he watches their hands, “Rough day at work?”

“I guess…I mean I only had one client.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stan shrugs slightly, the pad of his thumb tracing ever-so-gently across the lines on Eddie’s palm, “Just because someone else might have it worse, doesn’t make your feelings any less valid.”

From Richie, in the background, “_Aw, c’mon._”

Eddie glances at him, but his eyes go right back to Stan, who is now following the outlines of each of Eddie’s fingers with his own, “Yeah…That kinda tickles.”

Stan supresses a smirk as he sees the goosebumps beginning to surface across Eddie’s arms, “Sorry.” He stills his fingers, “Should I stop?”

Eddie is watching him fairly intensely, for a while, before he shakes his head, “Feels kinda nice…”

Richie has paused in his dramatic eye-rolling, now, and he’s just watching quietly.

“_Oh?_” Stan lifts Eddie’s hand, softly kisses his palm, and the visible prickle of fine hairs across Eddie’s forearm, and the slightest parting of his lips does not go unnoticed. Even Richie, who cannot possibly have seen those things from this distance, glasses or not, must have picked up on the minute change in Eddie’s stance.

He definitely has.

Stan sees Richie staring from the corner of his eye.

He smoothly slides their hands together, fingers slipping between Eddie’s, uses the firm grip he has on him now to hold him there as he plants a kiss on the back of his hand, then his knuckles, his thumb, and his wrist. Then, to the fine, inky black line of the tail of a tattoo poking from between their wrists – Richie’s name in tiny, cursive letters – shortly followed by a series of kisses, as though following the rungs of a ladder, up Eddie’s toned forearm to his elbow, where the material of his shirt begins.

Eddie eyes Stan’s lips and his face like he’s mesmerised, and the resulting frown on his face when Stan has run out of skin to kiss gives away his sudden acceptance of the situation even more fully than the _very_ rapid tightening of his suit trousers.

Stan doesn’t have time to make his next move, whatever that might have been, because quicker than he anticipated it happening, Eddie’s hand is gripping the back of Stan’s neck, and his lips have made contact with Stan’s with surprising ferocity.

“_Aw, man_,” Richie groans in disappointment (clearly that neither of those people are _him_)_, _though it’s obviously quickly forgotten the longer he watches them kiss, “Eds, why’d you have to be so easy? Don’t get me wrong, I fucking _love_ it, but it’s also kind of embarrassing. Like, aren’t you embarrassed? Pull it together man.”

Eddie is a very enthusiastic kisser; from his side it’s almost frantic in nature, rough and fast and hungry, the same way he does everything else. There’s a fine line between ‘passionate’ and ‘aggressive’, and Eddie treads that line frequently…Eddie _owns_ that line.

“Hey, _Eddie_.”

Stan, on the other hand, is not an ‘enthusiastic’ kisser at all. Rather, Stan lifts his free hand between them to gently hold it against Eddie’s cheek, thumb against his chin, so he can start to regain back control. Which he does, rather easily, slowing the pace of the kiss until it’s languid and deep, and Eddie is practically sinking against him, both hands grabbing blindly until they find Stan’s shirt collar.

“Eds, c’mon, man, what happened to not letting him ‘charm’ you?”

Stan’s thumb is on Eddie’s bottom lip, now, tugging his mouth open as he backs him against the island counter, so close to Richie, and yet not quite close enough. Eddie’s eyes are closed, but Stan’s are open, watching…monitoring…calculating. Eddie allows himself to be led, once more, breath hot and heavy between their open mouths.

“_Fuck_,” Richie breathes, as he watches them, when he hears Eddie’s breath already beginning to get faster, “Hey, Eds, I’ve missed you too, ya know? You just gonna leave me hanging over here?”

Eddie breaks the kiss briefly, but Stan follows him, drawing his attention straight back. He tugs at Eddie’s lip with his teeth, earns a soft groan, and Richie sees Stan’s tongue between them as their lips meet once more. For all Stan’s not really much of a kisser, _at all_, he’s _definitely_ not a tongue kisser. Eddie definitely _is_, though.

“You sly _bitch_,” Richie hisses, as he watches Eddie melt into it, once more, but he can’t help the way his dick throbs uncomfortably in his jeans the longer he watches them.

Eddie’s hands are still fisting at Stan’s collar, and the shoulders of his shirt, straining the fabric (‘if that’d been Richie, or Bill, there’d have been hell to pay, but apparently _Eddie’s_ allowed?’ Richie thinks bitterly…but when he really thinks about it, he’s not jealous at all). Meanwhile, Stan’s hands have made it to Eddie’s tie, calmly sliding it apart and starting on the buttons of his shirt with incredibly steady fingers. With every little ‘pop’ of a button (the way Stan is doing it just _has_ to be on purpose), more of Eddie’s tan, toned torso is revealed, and Richie is really gonna lose his shit if he has to watch this any longer without ever being allowed to be involved.

“_Eds, baby, c’mon_,” Richie whines.

At that, Eddie’s eyes suddenly open, he parts his lips from Stan’s, and looks at Richie. Stan looks at him, too, and he looks highly amused as he un-pops the final button on Eddie’s white shirt victoriously, untucking it from his trousers. Eddie’s a glory of compact, taut muscle and smooth, caramel-coloured skin, a small, tight waist and the kind of definition in his abdomen that you’d expect from someone who spent every second at the gym, not behind the wheel of a car or a limousine. _Fuck, only five days or not, Richie’s missed that body._

“Rich…” Eddie begins, but stops when he feels Stan’s hands at his belt, “No,” he says firmly, fingers immediately tightening around Stan’s wrists, and lifting them away, “Not in the kitchen!” Stan only smirks.

Eddie is looking around, now, at the counters, “Where’s the key?”

“What key?” Stan asks calmly.

“The key for the handcuffs!” Eddie reaches into Stan’s trouser pocket, now, and then the other, while Stan only allows it and watches him with an amused smugness. Richie suddenly perks up, holding up his wrist, the clang of metal against metal causing Eddie to flinch.

“_Yes!_ You’re the best fucking thing that ever happened to me!” Richie exclaims quickly, shaking his wrist around and tugging at it repetitively, now, “Hurry up and unlock me so we can rekindle our love…in any room that is _not_ the kitchen.” He pauses, “In _every_ room that is not the kitchen.” Eddie lets out what almost sounds like an irritated groan, but almost sounds like a whimper.

Stan is looking at Richie, now.

“I guess you can come along, Stanley. If we let you, after _this_ bullshit.”

Eddie is still basically giving Stan a ‘pat-down’ looking for the key, and Stan sighs.

“I don’t have the key.”

“_What?!_” For the first time, Richie’s expression is disgruntled. “_Are you fucking kidding me?_”

“What’s the problem?” Stan asks smoothly, “We can still have fun.”

“Fun _how?!_ I am literally chained to the oven! I feel like fucking Cinderella! I don’t even know how to cook, _Stanley!_”

Stan holds onto Eddie’s wrist as he’s reaching towards his shirt pocket, where Richie’s glasses are, and grips it firmly, steering him decidedly over to Richie, and literally _pressing_ them together, face-to-face. Stan, himself, is against Eddie’s back, holding him there, eyes locked with Richie’s over his shoulder.

“See?” He forces Eddie’s hand down between them, into Richie’s jeans, zip driven down once more by the bulk of both of their hands. Eddie protests at first, elbowing Stan in the ribs and struggling between them, but the moment he feels the hard, sticky heat against his fingertips, he gives in, hardly taking any persuasion at all.

“_Oh_, I take it back I’m so glad that you’re easy it’s not embarrassing at all.”

Eddie’s hand is smaller than Stan’s, and less ‘slender’, but warmer, and far stronger. His grip is tight as tense fingers wrap around Richie’s solid flesh. Eddie watches Richie’s expression with a lustful furrow in his brow, as he starts to move his hand, and Stan pulls his own back out of the way. There’s no teasing whatsoever where Eddie is concerned, because Eddie likes everything fast and hard and RIGHT-FUCKING-NOW. There’s still minimal lubrication (what there is, Richie ‘produced’ himself), but the friction from the speed of Eddie’s hand is _delicious_.

“Oh, holy _fuck_,” Richie breathes, voice gritty with want as he grips at Eddie’s bare waist with his free hand. His other, the one still chained to the oven, shoots forward to try to grab him, too, but all it does is slightly open the oven door, slamming it into the back of his thigh, “_Ow! Son of a-!_”

“_Perfect; keep going_,” Stan purrs into Eddie’s ear, as he slides his hands down across his stomach, fingers walking across Richie’s teasingly on their way to Eddie’s hips.

Eddie shudders, but he barely registers Stan’s hands. He’s watching Richie without blinking, pushing forward, pressing towards the large, ringed hand on his waist. It’s mere seconds before they’re kissing, Richie leaning down, Eddie reaching up, fingers of his free hand tangled into Richie’s scruffy hair so tightly Stan wonders how Richie ever has any left. The way Richie and Eddie kiss is messy, dirty, desperate; Stan follows their movements, this way and that, kissing Eddie’s exposed neck at one side, and when he tilts his head the other way into the kiss, biting the other. He doesn’t break the skin; Eddie would freak out in the _worst_ of ways if anyone ever did that, but Stan does bite him quite hard, because that’s something Eddie does like, being treated a little bit _roughly_. Stan can relate to that.

Eddie gasps against Richie’s lips. His next exhale shudders on the way out, and his hand moves rapidly from Richie’s hair to the front of Stan’s shirt behind him. Richie doesn’t see what it is he’s reacting to, but his mouth pauses in its movement against Eddie’s for a second, as though he’s taking it in. Lips meet, once more, and their kiss is only getting more urgent, and certainly more audible.

‘_Disgusting_,’ Stan thinks to himself, but once more, he doesn’t really feel that way at all.

Eddie’s hand is still moving quickly between their enclosed bodies. Stan can’t see anything, but he knows the tell-tale signs of Richie’s impending orgasm. He’s talking faster, more frequently against Eddie’s lips between kisses, mumbling incoherently. Stan can barely make out any of what he’s saying; the word ‘fuck’ is incredibly obvious multiple times, _‘I love you’_, is also said intermittently. Stan usually ignores Richie’s pre-climax rambling, but Eddie is a talker, too, and he’s responding in kind. Mostly, it’s just a lot of agreeing, even though Stan is positive Eddie cannot possibly understand what Richie is saying, either.

But then, Stan very distinctly hears:

“_Shit, don’t stop. Don’t stop_.”

“_Stop_,” Stan commands firmly to Eddie, tightening an arm around his waist, too. This could go either way.

Eddie stops immediately.

“_FUCK! STANLEY!_”

Stan smirks against Eddie’s ear, gently biting the shell of it, “_Good boy_,” he whispers, and that earns him a distinctive squirm.

“_You motherFUCKER!_”

“Who’re you calling a ‘motherfucker’?!” Eddie barks, and Richie groans dramatically, dropping back to lean heavily against the counter.

“I’m DYING, here! Fucking _bitch!_”

“So dramatic,” Stan says smugly, looking Richie dead in the eyes.

“You’d better not be talking to ME like that while I’ve still got your dick in my hand!”

“I didn’t…I wasn’t…_c’mon, Eddie_…” Richie whines, rather pathetically.

Eddie’s expression softens instantly, and he’s looking at Richie with a mixture of affection and desperation. Stan sighs quietly.

“Okay, go _slow_.”

Eddie doesn’t know the word ‘slow’. The movements of his hand as he begins again, Stan would consider fairly quick by anyone else’s standards.

Richie perks up instantly, of course, attached to Eddie again in a split second, hand on his neck, fingers cupping at his face, “_Yes_, Eddie…” That only encourages Eddie to go faster, still, despite Stan telling him to ‘_slow down’_. It’s a battle of Richie vs. Stan, now, but Stan knows before they even begin, that he doesn’t stand the slightest chance against Richie Tozier if the thing they’re fighting for is Eddie’s attention.

“_Yes…that feels so fucking good don’t stop…don’t stop Eddie don’t stop_.” Stan can’t help but admire the way Eddie’s eyes light up when Richie is this close to him. Their foreheads are together now, Eddie’s mouth is hanging slightly open, Richie’s thumb at the corner of his lips, but they don’t kiss this time. Stan only brushes Richie’s hair back with his fingertips as he watches them, arm still tight about Eddie’s waist.

Seeing them together like this is something special; even Stan has to admit that.

The way they look at each other causes a strange ache in his chest, and it is not in a bad way, at all.

“_Oh fuck I’m so fucking close…please don’t stop_…”

Stan finds himself so invested in the moment that even _he_ jumps when they hear the front door open. Eddie pulls his hand out of Richie’s jeans so fast you’d think they were on fire. Richie groans loudly and practically throws himself back against the countertop in the most dramatic way possible. He must have hurt his back against the edge of the marble in the process though, because he winces right after and doubles over.

“FUCK!”

Then there’s Bill, standing in the doorway with a to-go cup of coffee in one hand, and a thick, messy-looking journal in the other, pages sticking out every which way as though they’ve been torn out, written on and then shoved back in. He has a pencil tucked behind his ear, two pens in his top pocket without lids, and his plaid shirt is slightly crumpled atop a white t-shirt. The three buttons that are fastened in the middle are clearly in the wrong buttonholes.

Stan has the immediate urge to…fix things. So he does, approaching him instantly to unfasten the wonky buttons and re-do them correctly.

“Afternoon,” Bill chuckles softly, with a slight shake of his head.

“You went outside like this?” Stan asks dryly.

“I _did_,” Bill looks at Stan with amusement, and then past him at Richie and Eddie, “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Oh, no, not at all, I always walk into the kitchen with my dick hanging out and then handcuff myself to the oven,” Richie quips back right away. Whether to protect some of Richie’s dignity (or what very little he has), or his own, Eddie stays where he is, looking to be the only one of them who actually feels in any way embarrassed about the situation.

“Hey Eddie,” Bill greets casually.

“Bill.” Eddie nods, holding his hand over his forehead and not looking at him.

Bill laughs, “Well, I’ll just…” He motions towards the doorway, but Stan cuts him off.

“_Stay._”

It doesn’t really sound like a question.

Richie perks up very suddenly, “Yeah, Bill, why don’t ya come join us? Get a handle on your man…dle.” Even Eddie, though still wary, looks interested.

“Who, _Stan?_” Bill asks, bemused, looking at Stan, who is looking right back at him.

“Yes, _‘He who must be obeyed’_. He’s seriously grinding my gears right now, Billy, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Why? What’s he been doing?” Bill is still looking directly at Stan with a smile on his face.

“Nothing at all,” Stan responds coolly.

“Well, for _starters_ he chained me to the kitchen.” Richie jiggles the handcuffs, “Like a _naughty_ little slave. Except he won’t let me be naughty.” Eddie shakes his head, exasperated.

“_Okay?_” Bill frowns, but he laughs, too.

“Seriously, Bill, I was like two stops away from Happy Town, and he stopped the bus.”

Eddie’s hand sinks over his eyes. Bill sniggers.

“And then obviously since Eddie is such a good driver, he took over and started it again; he was like Sandra Bullock in ‘Speed’, and I was Keanu Reeves – _obviously_ – and we were just _tearing it_ down the road, just fucking _pedal-to-the-metal_-”

“I don’t need any more of this metaphor.”

Richie pauses, “And then you walked in.”

“Okay…” Bill chuckles, runs a hand through his hair, and comes into the kitchen to place his journal and his coffee on the counter. Then he turns to Stan again, “Stan, give me the key.”

“I don’t have the key.”

“_Doesn’t have the key_.” Richie mumbles in the background, shrugging.

“I checked all of his pockets, Bill, he must have it hidden somewhere in his bag or something,” Eddie adds, clearly trying to be helpful, shrugging Richie off when he tugs at his arm and mutters something to him that is very likely inappropriate.

“Oh, he has the key,” Bill nods slowly, approaching Stan, who’s just watching him challengingly.

_Gasp._ “_I knew it!_” From Richie.

“_No you didn’t_.” From Eddie.

“I know you have it,” Bill says to Stan, pushing his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he examines him up and down, “Turn around.”

Stan plays along, holding his hands up and turning around slowly, “I don’t have it.”

“Okay, hands up against the wall, and place your feet apart.” Bill says, then, and Stan turns to face him, once more, a playful smirk on his face. Bill snickers, looking back at Richie and Eddie, “It’s in his shoe.”

“It is _not_ in his shoe!” Richie shakes his head, “Is it? It is, isn’t it? It’s in his shoe! Of _course_ it’s in his shoe!”

Bill gets down on one knee, tucks his forefinger and thumb into the side of Stan’s right shoe, and pulls out a small key that was held in place by one of the laces, standing and holding it up in front of Stan’s face. Stan only quirks an eyebrow. Richie gasps comically behind them, while Eddie shakes his head in disapproval.

As soon as Bill has unlocked the handcuffs, Richie has his hands either side of his face, and he’s kissing him all over in an exaggerated fashion. Bill leaves the cuffs hanging over the oven door handle, and laughs as he holds onto Richie’s arms. His laughter is soon cut short by Richie’s eager lips, though, latched to Bill’s mouth in an instant.

Eddie is still so close to them, watching them kiss as though he is simultaneously embarrassed and enthralled. The way Bill and Richie kiss is pretty _filthy_, a mess of tongues and sleazy, wet noises, and Eddie almost seems as though he might move back out of their way until Bill and Richie both grab for him simultaneously, whether intentional or not. Richie’s hand grabs for his waist, and pulls him in closer, while Bill’s hand goes for his wrist, and his grip is far more gentle, not forcing but _guiding_.

Richie breaks the kiss, then, with a last, sloppy peck to the corner of Bill’s open mouth, before he looks at Eddie, hand moving to the back of Eddie’s neck and steering him as Bill comes in to meet him. Now it’s Bill and Eddie, whose lips are locked, their kiss just as fierce, but with a strange bashfulness on Eddie’s part that wasn’t there when he was kissing Richie. It’s only for a second, though; Bill quells it quickly with his hands on Eddie’s cheeks, and his neck, gentle but commanding. Both sets of hands grab at Eddie’s body, stripping his open shirt off his shoulders onto the floor, leaving open every solid inch of his tanned and tattooed torso. Richie slides Eddie’s belt out of the loops almost aggressively, spurred on as he watches them kiss from mere inches away.

Stan observes from the side-lines, for once unsure of how to act. If he joins them, he’ll seem too eager, and he’ll have given over the upper hand. He can’t control all three of them, that way, especially not in the heat of the moment they’re lost in. But, if he stays away, he’ll seem too disinterested, when in reality, he knows he doesn’t want to leave.

He observes as Bill’s eyes flicker open frequently, just enough to gauge where Stan is, and what he’s doing. Out of mistrust? _No_. Out of desire? Almost definitely.

Richie gets there first, though, moving surprisingly quickly for a man with the physical prowess and lung capacity of an octogenarian. His hand goes for Stan’s tie, using it to pull him towards them with relative ease, though that’s mostly because it’s one of Stan’s favourite ties, and in order to prevent any creasing or damage to it, Stan steps forward anyway.

He’s ready to regain back some of his control of the situation; a few specific touches, a few tailored words, a bit of steering in the right direction, and he thinks he can keep them all in check. He knows their weaknesses, their soft spots, how to manipulate each and every one. That Bill is here now doesn’t matter. Group ‘leader’ or not, Stan has Bill wrapped around his finger.

Or, so he thought, anyway.

The moment he’s close enough, Bill breaks from Eddie’s lips and turns to Stan. He expects to be dragged in, in that moment, kissed, maybe manhandled a little. Bill will try to win him over by being assertive, and it will work, to a point.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is the tender way Bill brushes the backs of his fingers across Stan’s cheek, tucks his hair back from his face.

“What’s the matter? Why are you home from work so early?”

Stan frowns, though his shoulders loosen, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Yes, Bill, I am.”

“Migraine?” Bill’s fingertips are incredibly gentle as they lift Stan’s dark curls from his forehead, “You still drink too much caffeine.”

“Regardless of-” Stan feels something cold against his wrist, hears the distinctive, sharp ‘click’ as the handcuffs lock together, and then notices the looming presence of Richie behind him, holding the other end. Stan scoffs, glances over his shoulder, and then looks at Bill again. There’s no betrayal in his expression, only amusement. “Is this my punishment? You’re going to handcuff me to Richie?” Stan is tugged sideways, then, as Richie locks the other side to the oven door handle.

“I think you need a time out,” Bill says calmly. His expression is soft, but there’s a smugness behind it that Stan sort of likes.

“I see,” Stan drawls, “A taste of my own medicine?”

“Oh, you’ll wanna come crawling back to us, Stanley,” Richie purrs into his ear, “You might be a cold-hearted _bitch_, but we can see right through you.” He reaches for Stan’s shirt pocket, then, and takes back his glasses, “Can I have these back?” He laughs in an exaggerated fashion as he puts them on, “Oh, that’s _right_, I don’t have to ask for your permission, because you’re handcuffed to the oven and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

Eddie is watching Stan from behind Richie, looking antsy; his cheeks are flushed, his hair’s a mess, and he’s chewing at his bottom lip repeatedly. That’s Stan’s best bet for getting free.

“Eddie,” he begins, but Richie puts his finger to Stan’s mouth quickly, and Bill tucks his arm around Eddie’s shoulders.

“Ah…Nu-uh,” Richie tuts, “Don’t you worry your pretty, curly little head, Stanley, we’re gonna take good care of him…and each other…and maybe even ourselves just a little bit, and _meanwhile_, you can stand here by yourself with your unresolved sexual tension and your nasty little headache and think about-”

“Richie.” Eddie’s voice draws Richie’s attention instantly. He turns back to Stan for one final quip, though.

“Oh, how the _turns_ have _tabled_-”

“Rich!”

“Yes! I’m coming my little sweet-pea.”

Richie is back to Eddie, then, hand on the back of his neck, as he steers him backwards, and Bill with him, behind him, guiding the movement. Just beyond the general ‘kitchen’ area, and before the dining table, there’s a large, stone fireplace, with two white armchairs in front of it. That’s where they stop, Bill moving behind the low backrest as Richie presses Eddie into the chair, and sinks between his thighs.

It’s not a big chair. There’s very little room for the two of them, especially given Richie’s general size, but that only seems to be a help rather than a hindrance, since Eddie has to hook his legs around him just to hold Richie in place. They kiss, once more, aggressive and needy, bare chests together as Eddie drags at the fabric of Richie’s open shirt, assertively encouraging him to press down with his hips. He does, drawing them into a deep, slow grind that has Eddie’s thighs shaking, hands moving lower to pull at Richie’s belt loops, one of them sliding into the back of his jeans.

Bill watches them closely from the backrest as he leans against it, while Stan observes from a distance, willing his breath to stay steady. It would be easy to do so, if Bill wouldn’t keep looking over at him like _that_.

“I said…” _Kiss_. “Not…” _Kiss_. “In the kitchen…” Eddie breathes, in the brief moments he’s not blocked by Richie’s mouth.

Richie only laughs as he leans back, long enough to pull Eddie’s dress shoes off at the heels and throw them in opposite directions. “We’re not_ in_ the kitchen!” Before Eddie can respond, Richie’s lips have prevented him, once more. He breaks long enough to add, “We’re just kitchen _adjacent!_”

Bill laughs softly, running his fingers through Eddie’s hair, admiring the thick, glossy locks that never seem to lose their lustre with age. Eddie reaches back for him, then, as his head tips back, making way for Richie’s sudden, enthusiastic attention to his neck. Bill cups his hand at Eddie’s chin, tips his head further, leaning down to kiss him with a gentle grip on his hair. Eddie’s hand loops around the back of Bill’s neck in return, into his hair, too.

Stan notes the contrast between their actions.

The way Richie’s lips and his tongue messily find every last inch of Eddie’s neck, shoulders and chest in frantic worship, unable to stay in any one place for too long. His mouth settles around Eddie’s left nipple for about six seconds, before he has moved on again. He goes back to the same places, once, twice, three times, volleying between them in quick succession. Stan finds that incredibly irritating, thinks every part of Eddie’s body deserves lengthy attention, if you’re really going to take him apart. Eddie doesn’t seem to feel the same way, though, groaning and gasping at every minor touch.

Bill, on the other hand, is calm. The way he kisses Eddie is just as messy, but it’s _slow_, and thoughtful. His fingers in Eddie’s hair are loose, completely non-threatening, occasionally sliding back and forth against his scalp. Stan knows there’s nothing teasing behind Bill’s gentle touches. They’re not calculated, it’s just absent, an emotional response, pure feeling and affection.

Eddie is completely powerless between those two, lost in a fog of lust Stan knows there’s no chance of him breaking out of, now. Both of his hands are in Bill’s hair, desperately holding him in place, while Bill, being Bill, caters to his every whim, turning any way Eddie wants him to turn, kissing any way he expects Eddie wants to be kissed. Bill’s eyes open several times, just long enough to firstly look at Stan, and then to look at Richie, whose lips have made it to Eddie’s stomach with the same level of enthusiasm, if not more, than they had for the rest of his body. Clumsy hands fumble with the fastening on Eddie’s trousers for what must be well over a minute, but none of them appear to notice, nor to be put off by it in the slightest. Stan watches the graceless affair with definite judgement in his eyes, hoping this is one of the many times Bill decides to try to catch his eye.

It is.

Bill only laughs.

As soon as that damned fastening is free, though, it takes barely two seconds for Richie to rid Eddie of his trousers, tossing them unceremoniously over his shoulder as he kneels at his feet. Eddie and Bill are _both_ watching him, now.

“You are _far_ too young to see this,” Richie says to Eddie, as he removes his glasses, and pushes them onto Eddie’s face instead, narrowly missing stabbing him in the eye, “Here. You won’t see a thing. But neither will I, so wish us both luck. If I start sucking on your toes instead just steer me in the right direction.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

Stan knows exactly what to anticipate next, as he sees Richie’s head disappear between Eddie’s thighs, observes Eddie’s head drop back with a whimper. Exactly as Stan assumes they will, Eddie’s fingers twitch, destined to be tangled into Richie’s hair within the next few seconds.

“_Watch_,” Stan says, loudly enough for Bill to hear him.

Bill looks at him, seems confused for a split second, before he reacts, grabbing Eddie’s right wrist just as both of his arms begin to move. Exactly as Stan predicted, Eddie’s left hand is fisting at Richie’s hair at the back of his head, his right restless in Bill’s grip, desperate to join it. Stan sees the fond look on Bill’s face, and the smile on his lips as he unfastens Eddie’s watch, the very same watch Eddie wears every single day, the very same watch that has an overly large clasp at the back, the very same watch that has been caught in Richie’s hair in particular _so_ many times that it quickly became a running joke between them, and then went past that and into ridiculous. Everyone else looks out for it, now. Richie and Eddie themselves, however, somehow always manage to forget the multiple times Richie’s hair has had to be cut, or been torn out, or that they have miraculously continued to have sex regardless, only afterwards noticing that they are attached together. As far as Stan is concerned, Richie and Eddie share a single braincell, between them, and it spends most of its time memorising ‘your mom’ jokes.

Bill places Eddie’s watch carefully onto the little table beside them, attention instantly drawn back when Eddie moans particularly loudly. He draws Eddie’s hair back affectionately with his fingertips as he leans down beside him once more, pressing slow kisses to the side of his face, and watching Richie’s head rise and fall almost lazily between his legs.

“_Oh my God_…” Eddie whines, tugging at Richie’s hair with one hand, the other now gripping at the arm of the chair, knuckles white. His eyes meet Stan’s briefly, as though he suddenly remembered that he’s there, and that he’s watching, and the colour in his cheeks certainly darkens, now. Stan, however, not embarrassed in the least, maintains his gaze, unblinking. He only hopes his eyes alone can convey what he’d like to be able to whisper to Eddie with his lips. It takes Stan longer than it should have to register the fact that the lenses of Richie’s glasses, in front of Eddie’s eyes, must mean that he can see very little of Stan, at all. No more than a blurry shape he _knows_ is Stan.

Perhaps that’s enough.

“_I know you’re watching me and I just wanna say that I hate it_,” Eddie blurts out, and Richie lifts his head.

“Who’s watching you?” He looks around blindly, “Stan? _So?_ Stan’s sucked your dick a million times, who cares if he sees _me_ do it?”

“That’s not the point!”

“If it’s bothering you we can swap and _you _can suck _my_ dick.”

“It doesn’t matter who is sucking whose dick! It’s still embarrassing regardless if someone is watching!”

“Well, I dunno how to tell you this, but…” Richie cups his hand around his mouth, whispering loudly to Eddie, “Bill is standing right behind you, and he can see _everything_.”

“Oh my God…”

“Richie,” Bill smiles softly, clearly suppressing a laugh, “You sure know how to kill a moment.”

“Eddie started it.”

“Please can we just go upstairs?!” Eddie shifts to try to pull up his underwear, but Richie’s hands prevent him.

“Woah there!”

Bill’s hands are on his shoulders now, too, pushing him back down into the chair gently. He brushes his lips against Eddie’s cheek, “Just ignore Stan,” He lowers his voice to a whisper, “Trust me, it’ll really piss him off if we ignore him.”

Eddie lets out a breath that is almost a laugh. His voice comes out quiet, mirroring Bill’s, “I feel like he’s judging us.”

“Oh, he’s definitely judging us,” Bill nods, glancing over at Stan with amusement.

Richie leans across Eddie so that he’s just as close as the two of them; he starts whispering too, “_What are we whispering about?_”

“I think Ed’s gonna need a little persuasion.”

“Say no more,” Richie’s eyes meet Eddie’s instantly. He stoops in close so that their mouths are almost touching, lips brushing softly, all delicate and romantic, “Fucking pull yourself together.”

“_Fucking shut up_,” Eddie hisses back, _instantly_ distracted from any of his previous anxious thoughts. Bill smirks almost affectionately, with a slight shake of his head.

“You wanna _make me?_” Richie asks quietly, voice low.

Eddie takes the bait _so_ easily. His eyes are fixed onto Richie’s intensely, brow furrowed.

“_I could_…I could fucking easily make you…”

“Oh, I _know_ you could,” Richie agrees playfully, hand creeping down slowly between their bodies, “See but there’s a lot of things _I_ could easily make _you_ do.”

“You can’t make me do _shit_,” Eddie growls, but his body very quickly betrays him when he lets out a startlingly feminine gasp against Richie’s waiting lips, which soon curl into a smirk.

“_You sure about that?_”

“_Oh-_…_fuck you_…”

“How’s about _I_ fuck _you?_” Richie’s hand is still between them, and there’s a certain amount of hip movement, especially on Eddie’s part, and the tense arching of his back out of the chair, as far as it can go before he’s blocked by Richie, which Bill observes quietly, hands back in Eddie’s hair now, and lips tracing the shell of his ear.

“_Oh my God_…” Eddie whimpers, once more, but he quickly bites into his bottom lip, eyes locked with Richie’s, “_You’re so fucking blind I can’t see shit outta these…_”

“Oh, see that’s a shame because you look so fucking sexy in them,” Richie charms back. Bill hooks his arm loosely around Eddie’s chest, as he observes the movements of Richie’s arm between him and Eddie. He knows Richie’s got at least one of his fingers inside him; it’s his go-to move where Eddie is concerned. A definite weak point.

“_When was the last time you fucking cleaned the lenses? You can’t-fuck…oh, fuck…” _

Richie smirks, hums slightly in amusement, “What was that, dear? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you starting to lose it when you realise I’m about to finger-bang you into the next century in front of Bill and Stan.”

Both of Eddie’s hands are on the arms of the chair, now, gripping it like he’s strapped into it for torture. He’s still watching Richie’s eyes, not quite _embarrassed_, anymore…more slightly annoyed. It washes over his face in nothing more than a few seconds, though, as there’s more movement from Richie’s arm between them. He’s two fingers deep, at this point, probing in and out of him slowly to the full length of both digits.

Bill tightens his arm around him when he sees and hears Eddie’s breathing quicken, sucks a gentle mark into the crook of his neck, and admires the pulsing and tightening of the muscles in his abdomen as his head drops back against the backrest. The shaky noise he makes almost sounds like he’s in pain.

“_You okay?_” Bill asks softly, thumb brushing Eddie’s cheek, tucking a loose curl of hair behind his ear.

“_Y-yeah_…” Eddie nods quickly, hand shooting up from the armrest to hold onto Bill’s collar, and then sliding around to the back of his neck, holding him close, “_Tell him to go faster_.”

“Tell me yourself, _dumbass_, I can hear you. I’m like four inches away.”

“Go faster, Rich,” Bill says anyway, with a soft laugh.

“Yes, okay, I can do that but I don’t have a lot to work with, here. I need lube.” Stan instantly tenses against what he knows is coming, as he continues to watch them silently; a ridiculous, over-exaggerated voice, “_Nurse Denbrough, bring me the K.Y, stat!_”

Bill rolls his eyes with a snigger, but he moves to get to his feet anyway. Eddie’s vice-like grip on his shirt stops him.

“_No!_ Bill don’t go! Don’t leave…please stay.”

Bill returns to him in an instant, brushing lips with Eddie’s, whispering, “I’ll be right back…”

“_No_…” Eddie shakes his head, and his voice sounds so desperate Bill doesn’t think he’d physically have the heart to turn away, now.

“Well then whaddya want me to do, Eds? I could just keep going but it’s not gonna be-”

“Don’t be a pussy just fucking spit on it,” Eddie says bluntly, and Richie snorts as he raises his eyebrows.

“Wow! Y’know, once upon a time you wouldn’t touch the bathroom door handle in your _own_ house, now you’re just like, ‘_I don’t care, bro, just fucking spit on my asshole or whatever_.’”

“You know, miraculously, there’s this thing called a ‘shower’ that was invented like a billion years ago!” Eddie snaps, and Richie only laughs at Eddie’s flustered expression.

“Okay, okay, alright! You don’t have to tell _me_ twice!” Richie sits back on his heels, and slowly withdraws his fingers, pulls his hand back from the twisted leg of Eddie’s briefs. He tugs them off shortly after, “Lemme just get these sexy little panties out of the way.”

“_Just fucking shut up_.”

“Ouch,” Richie holds onto Eddie’s hips with both hands, gives him a rough tug closer to the edge of the chair. Eddie hisses in a strange combination of aggravation and arousal as he watches him, pupils blown wide and chest rising and falling rapidly, “You’re scary when you’re naked and vulnerable and completely at my mercy,” He spits onto the same two fingers he just pulled out.

“Come _on_, Rich,” for all Eddie is trying to be demanding, the crack in his voice betrays him.

“_I got you, baby boy_.”

Eddie sinks back into the chair again with a satisfied groan as Richie’s fingers slide into him, as Richie leans over him, as Bill kneels down to the side of the chair, now, comes in over the arm of it to get in close and capture Eddie in a kiss. The defined muscles in his lower stomach flex and twitch as long digits reach their full depth, as they twist this way and that, testing the ease of movement. Those same muscles go tense, and remain that way, seconds later when Richie’s fingers begin to pulse in and out at a quick, rough pace. Eddie’s toned thighs shudder either side.

“Oh, _fuck!_” Eddie gasps loudly against Bill’s lips. He must repeat the word _fuck_ at least seven more times before he kisses him again, hard and desperate, shaking fingers fisting in the collar of Bill’s shirt. He breaks once more very shortly afterwards, “_Yes…oh fuck…yes like that…just like that…_”

Richie watches with lust-fuelled fascination as he blindly fucks him with his fingers, paying no attention whatsoever to the rhythm or the position, just hard, fast and deep, how Eddie likes it. No holds barred, no stopping to adjust, no teasing or slow build-up, just rough, _fuck-me-now_ passion. His arm is aching already, but it’s worth it – happens every time. Richie wonders how his right arm isn’t fucking _jacked_ at this point.

It’d probably be enough by itself to bring Eddie to climax, they all know that, have done it plenty of times before, but it’d take a little longer, and right now no one seems to be in the mood for taking things slowly. Bill swallows hard as Eddie continues to break from his lips to curse and beg, torn between not wanting to tear his eyes away from Eddie’s pretty, flushed face, and wanting desperately to be able to watch, instead, his tight, solid body in all its naked glory as it arches and curves, left foot lifting to rest against Richie’s thigh, right foot coming all the way up until it’s nearly at Richie’s waist. Bill’s hand slides its way across Eddie’s chest, down his taut stomach, feeling the muscles convulse at his touch, especially as he reaches his groin. The skin there is hotter than the rest, slightly damp, almost sticky with pre-release.

Eddie expels the most lustful cry when Bill’s gentle fingers wrap around him that even _Stan_ shudders, feels it through him like a static shock. He’s glad the other three are so absorbed in their own moment that there’s no way any of them could have picked up on it.

Bill’s grip may be gentle, but his movements are fast, trying to match the rhythm and speed of Richie’s fingers until they’re in almost perfect sync. Between them, they _very_ quickly turn Eddie into a mess of loud, vocal gasps and breathless expletives. Bill and Eddie share another kiss, then Richie and Eddie, then Richie and Bill. Eddie watches their lips lock above him with wild eyes.

Richie groans into Bill’s mouth as they kiss, caught in the heat of the moment, the sound of Eddie whimpering and whining so close by, the tight wet heat around his fingers, the lingering taste of coffee on Bill’s tongue. He vaguely wonders if he could blow his wad just from this experience by itself, all senses assaulted at once.

They notice Eddie’s sudden silence simultaneously, breaking the kiss to return their attention to him. He’s gripping at the backrest above his head, face tucked into his arm, slightly concealed, but not enough to mask the strain in his brow, nor the silent ‘O’ at his lips. Richie’s glasses are skewed on his face, lenses slightly foggy. It’s Eddie’s signature seconds-away-from-climax expression, always goes quiet and still when he’s right on the cusp.

“_Oh, fuck, yes, c’mon_,” Richie hisses hotly, dropping back on his knees so that he can see _everything. _As he moves, he lifts Eddie’s foot to his shoulder, trying to perfectly maintain the rhythm and angle of his fingers as they are.

Stan feels himself holding his breath.

Bill is watching, too, though his eyes are fixed on Eddie’s face, his own a soft medley of desire and affection, “_You’re so good_,” he breathes absently, close to his ear. That’s the moment that seems to tip Eddie over the edge, ejaculating hard across his own stomach with a cry and a rough, full-body jolt. When he breathes out, it’s so shaky his teeth chatter a little, and Richie laughs.

There’s rarely any ‘post-climax bliss’ where Eddie is concerned, and there isn’t any now. He only takes two deep breaths before he lunges forward to pull Richie into a rough kiss, hands reaching out, tugging, fingers grasping. He pulls him forcefully into his lap in the chair; the size of which barely allows for both of them, but Richie only chuckles into Eddie’s mouth as he rests his weight onto him, not concerned with their difference in size when he knows full well Eddie is the same amount stronger than Richie as Richie is taller than him.

Eddie’s small fingers make very short work of the closure of Richie’s jeans, still unbuttoned anyway from _both_ of his earlier thwarted handjobs. He reaches down to take his glasses back from Eddie’s face as he’s kneeling over him, seating them back comfortably on his own nose. Now that he can see clearly again, he notices the indent from one of the plastic ‘arms’ across Eddie’s cheek, and rubs at it affectionately with the pad of his thumb.

In his distraction, he barely notices Bill shift behind him, but now Bill is pressed against his back as Eddie’s pulling his dick out of his jeans. Two different hands, then, are on his shaft, first Bill’s at the base, slightly larger and rougher, then Eddie’s, smaller and softer, rests above it, thumbing at the tip.

He’s still feeling pretty sensitive, all thing’s considered, and he knows this won’t last long, no matter how hard he tries, or how much he wills it to. Eddie’s looking up at him, all sultry and perfect, doe eyes and wet lips. Bill’s at his shoulder, warm breath ghosting his ear and his palm tight as he jerks him off short and sharp below Eddie’s twisting fingers.

“_Holy fuck…” _Richie groans quietly, as they work him up slowly between them, both too much and not enough, everything and nothing. Neither hand can _really_ move while the other is there, but the mix of sensations, and the understanding in and of itself that its both of them at once makes Richie dizzy.

Then Eddie moves his fingers away, slides down a bit in the chair, comes in with his hot little mouth instead so Bill can really start working magic with his hand – which he does, _oh, fuck, does he ever?_ – and Eddie rests his lips _just so_ against the tip, allowing Bill’s jolting movements to do all the work, to rub up against his tongue every now and then.

Richie watches Eddie’s open mouth with sick fascination, “Thirty fucking seconds and I swear to all that is good and holy you’re taking it right in the mouth unless you move…”

But Eddie doesn’t move, only continues to lock eyes with him, challenging him…daring him?

_Shit, Bill gives the best fucking handjobs._

“_Oh, shit_…Eds I swear I’m not fucking kidding around!” Richie’s already holding himself back. He can feel that delicious burn low in his abdomen, building to a crescendo he has always been utterly useless at purposely postponing. Bill’s sucking on his neck right under his ear, playing around with his hair with his free hand, palm all tight and sweaty on his shaft. Eddie’s eyes are practically glistening as he rubs the flat of his tongue right across the head of his dick, right over the slit. Richie’s in fucking _ecstasy_.

Good thing Eddie’s got fast reflexes, because Richie certainly does not. He’s reaching out for Eddie’s hair, about to move him out of the firing line himself, when he comes, faster than he anticipated. Bill catches on quicker than Richie does, too, taking most of the ‘hit’ in his hand, but the rest gets Eddie in the face, thankfully only the side of his jaw as he turns away. He’s quick to scrub it off with the corner of Richie’s shirt.

“Oh, _mama_…” Richie murmurs, sitting down heavily against Eddie’s knees. He feels drained. He’s getting way too fucking old to be having a four-way when he’s jetlagged.

“We’re not done.” Bill says resolutely, as he chuckles behind him, patting at Richie’s shoulders.

“Just gimme…like _five _minutes.” Richie climbs out of Eddie’s lap and feels a strain in his back from where he smacked it against the countertop earlier, “Ow…Maybe more like thirty.”

Eddie, on the other hand, is the peak of fitness and energy, as he bounces up to retrieve his underwear, tugging them on in seconds like he’s twenty years younger. He looks invigorated, and Richie watches him tiredly as he leans against the armchair.

Stan is still watching them with a stony expression. He hasn’t moved an inch since they left him, and that was clearly his intention – to appear as unbothered as humanly possible. Eddie follows Bill back over to him, and hops up onto the island counter.

“What’re we gonna do with him, Bill?” He asks smugly, and Stan gives him a withering look, that ends with a slight smirk.

Richie joins them promptly, making a sudden recovery the second he remembers that they still have Stan at their mercy, chained to the oven door.

“That depends,” Bill responds gently, though Stan, for one, detects the slightest unsteadiness in his voice. He glances down, and makes no attempt to hide it. Bill’s hard in his jeans. He’s at a distinct disadvantage already.

“On?” Stan asks coolly, making sure to highlight how steady his voice is, in comparison.

Bill just stares at him for a while.

Richie breaks the silence, “Let’s just fuck around with him and then leave him here with blue balls. He’d do the same to any of us.”

Bill shakes his head.

“Let’s cut off some of his hair,” Richie suggests, next, laughing when Stan’s head snaps around towards him.

Bill sniggers, shakes his head again.

“We could just leave him here anyway without doing anything to him. He’d definitely do that to us, too,” Eddie says, then, and Stan acts as distinctly uninterested as possible in that suggestion.

Once more, Bill disagrees.

Richie leans back between Eddie’s thighs, “How about…we…” Richie pauses for a while, until the corners of his mouth turn up into a particularly mischievous smile. Stan is watching him. “Make him cry.”

Stan scoffs.

“I think we can do that,” Bill says, then, and his voice is steadier than ever. He meets Stan’s eyes, and Stan feels a flutter in his chest that he has to try _very_ hard to hide.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, with a chuckle, as he approaches Stan’s side, twisting one of Stan’s dark curls around his finger, “We can _definitely_ do that.”

“I doubt it,” Stan drawls. He’s not sure whether he’s serious, or whether he’s egging them on, at this point. He can already feel his pulse quickening, the kind of lurching in his chest you get before a panic attack, but this time, the adrenaline is…excitement?

Bill approaches him, now, right in front, until they’re chest-to-chest, and Stan feels his pulse quicken, _again_. Bill couldn’t possibly feel that, regardless of how close they are, but Stan wills it to slow down to an undetectable level, all the same.

When Bill kisses him, it’s _incredibly_ slow. A teasing brush of lips, once, twice, three times, four times, five…each softer and more delicate than the last, eyes locked in what Stan would consider a battle of wills, but from Bill’s side, it’s just…love…desire…devotion. He finds himself wanting Bill to kiss him, _willing_ Bill to kiss him. He doesn’t lean into it, himself, doesn’t reciprocate or submit to the chase, but after a while, every brush of Bill’s lips against his own makes his skin tingle with frustrated need. When it finally happens, when Bill’s mouth finally presses down firmly enough for it to be considered a ‘kiss’, Stan can’t help but melt into it. He knows it’s a small failure, but he can allow himself this _one_, at least.

He sees Eddie move on the counter, from the corner of his eye, shift behind him with his legs either side. Small, nimble fingers curve around Stan’s body to his tie, unfasten it with a delicacy Eddie clearly knows Stan will appreciate. _If you think that will win my favour, you’re wrong, _Stan thinks to himself, as Eddie’s tanned knees press in against his hips.

Then there’s Richie, close at his side, unbuttoning Stan’s shirt cuff, then rounding to the other, removing his watch, and his ring. There’s a definite tactic behind this, Stan muses, as he hears the distinctive, but surprisingly gentle ‘clack’ of his watch against the countertop. They’ll strip him of everything he has, make him feel open and vulnerable. He knows because that’s exactly what he would do, were the situations reversed. Perhaps he has taught them _too_ well.

Back to Bill, and he has his hands either side of Stan’s neck, now, fingertips just gently resting up onto his face as he deepens the kiss. Stan would like to think himself immune to such trivial things as kisses, but even he has to admit that sometimes they’re…different…Bill, for example, has such a gentle demeanour that you couldn’t help but be infatuated by, and Stan is certainly no exception. The tip of Bill’s tongue brushes the parting of his lips and it feels _good_, his lips part of their own volition, inviting him in. One small failure becomes two…then three, as he feels his own tongue reciprocate Bill’s playful movements.

Then there’s Eddie, again, hot little body clenched so fully to Stan’s back that his shirt is beginning to cling to him, there. Stan’s tie has long been slid away from his neck, and now Eddie is working his way down the buttons, starting at his starched collar. He feels cool air on his chest, in the gap between him and Bill, and the exposure of his bare skin shouldn’t be nearly as exciting as it currently feels.

Richie is down on the ground, now. Stan can’t see him; his eyes are closed, but his looming presence is definitely noticeable when it suddenly _isn’t_ looming, anymore. He feels the fine laces of one of his shoes being untied, and then the other, each expensive, black oxford removed at the heel with surprising care, where Richie is concerned. _Still attempting to win me over that way? It won’t work. _His socks are rolled down, and pulled away, too. The kitchen tiles are warm against his bare feet – he can thank their underfloor heating, for that.

A soft, ever-so-slightly shaking breath against his lips, before he’s kissed again, catches Stan off-guard. Bill should be more careful, if he wants Stan to believe he is still composed. He knows Bill is riled-up, now, and that’s perhaps putting it nicely. And Stan _definitely_ should not have begun thinking about that, at all. He feels a distinctive prickle of arousal, low in his body, when he imagines how _wrecked_ Bill can get, when he’s aroused. Cutting down all that calm, pragmatist exterior to reveal the gritty underbelly.

_Damn it._

Eddie has made short work of Stan’s shirt, sliding it down off his shoulders, until it catches on the handcuffs on his right wrist. Stan feels surprisingly calm, all things considered, and very much as though he might enjoy this experience whilst still remaining entirely composed and able to-

Suddenly, he hears a very unmistakeable _tearing_ sound, as Eddie forcibly rips the sleeve of Stan’s shirt to pull it free. His head snaps around viciously, but then there’s a firm hand on his jaw, pulling him roughly back.

Everything changes, then.

“_Did you just rip my-_” Stan begins venomously, but he’s cut short when the palm of a hand connects with his cheek so hard he briefly sees stars.

Well…he wasn’t expecting _that_ at all…

His head is knocked to the side, and he can instantly feel and hear his pulse pounding in his ears. His skin stings when he lifts his hand to touch it, right at the corner of his lips. His eyes are watering. He can even taste blood in his mouth.

_He feels exhilarated._

He looks back around, eyes wide, and Bill is still in front of him, hand outstretched in the wake of the sudden action. Bill looks very much as though he instantly regrets it, and as though he’s about to speak, but Richie cuts in front of him, then, quickly recovering the moment.

“You’re bleeding, Stanley,” Richie points out bluntly, as he grips at Stan’s chin, thumbs at the parting at the corner of his lips, which Stan can distinctly feel is wet. Richie lifts his thumb to his own mouth, then, sucks it clean, Stan’s blood visible on his tongue. Then he dips in and kisses him, hard.

_It hurts._

Stan hardly registers that he’s kissing him back, now, but he is, with surprising enthusiasm. His reaction appears to have recovered Bill’s confidence, because Stan can feel and smell him press in at his side, then Bill’s lips all over his neck, sucking, kissing, _biting_…harder than Bill would normally dare to bite, or want to. Eddie comes in at the other side, then, and Eddie doesn’t pull punches the way Bill does; when Eddie bites him, he almost breaks skin, working a bruise into the crook of Stan’s neck he knows he’s going to be mad about, later. Right now, though, he only wishes Eddie would bite _harder_.

Now that Richie is in the middle, things pick up pace at an alarming rate. Stan feels his belt tugged free, the fastening of his trousers is manhandled open, then Richie’s hands move away, they reach into Stan’s hair, instead, as he continues to kiss him so thoroughly he can hardly breathe. A new pair of hands tugs his trousers off his hips, and he’s almost knocked over as they’re freed from his ankles. Eddie holds him upright, with his knees digging into Stan’s hips, and both arms tight around his chest, fingers digging into his skin; Stan can feel that there’ll be welts there, from Eddie’s blunt nails, when he lets go.

The whole thing is possessive, protective…they’re trying to cause him some pain…discomfort…make him desperate, _yes_, but all the same, there’s an aggressive underlying of affection that Stan likes even more. That’s just what he wants – to be _viciously_ desired.

When Richie finally breaks free from his lips, Stan finds himself gasping for breath. He feels dizzy.

“Still feeling stressed?” Richie asks smugly, leaning in close to Stan’s ear, “_Don’t worry, baby, we can fix that._”

Stan only manages to take two decent breaths before his head is yanked backwards; Eddie’s got a hold of him, now, by the hair, and latches onto his lips before Stan can protest. Stan can’t help the way his body reacts, the only hand he has free reaching up to grip at Eddie’s neck, pull him in closer, encourage him to do whatever it is Stan knows Eddie has it in him to do. All that raw, primal aggression…Stan shudders at the thought. He’s stopped, though, by another hand on his wrist – Richie’s hand – preventing him from touching Eddie in _any_ way Stan might want to.

“_Nu-uh,_” Richie smirks, close to his ear, once more, crowding over him, “_You’ve been bad, Stanley. You don’t get treats_.”

Stan almost laughs; Richie has always been good at playing along with his fantasies.

He can vaguely hear the handcuffs being unlocked from his wrist, feels them fall away, and jumps slightly when they clatter to the ground.

There’s no time to register what that might mean, though. The second the cuffs have fallen from his wrist, Stan feels Bill’s hands on his bare waist – he’s almost embarrassed by how that makes him feel all by itself – and then he’s turned around, slapped face down against the counter between Eddie’s thighs. His reddened cheek, still stinging bitterly, is simultaneously soothed and aggravated by the cold marble worktop as he’s forced onto it.

Eddie parts his thighs further on the counter, gives Stan more room, and chances at stroking his hands across the backs of his shoulders in a somewhat soothing fashion. There’s blood smeared on the counter from Stan’s mouth already, and he’s breathing really heavily. Eddie feels concerned, for sure, but he doesn’t want to ruin the atmosphere they’ve created. Stan obviously likes shit like this, and they’re willing to play along to satisfy that side of him, as long as no one ever gets hurt for real.

Bill is clearly far less willing to play along than he will ever admit, though. Now that Stan can no longer see him, he has this guilty, anxious look on his face. Eddie totally gets it; Bill has always been a kind, gentle soul, opposed to violence unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s clearly willing to satisfy Stan’s weird fetishes, but whether he always enjoys them or not, himself, is another thing entirely. Richie can see it in Bill’s face, too, and he’s mouthing to him behind Stan’s back, holding Bill’s shoulders.

_“He’s fine.”_

Bill doesn’t seem sure, though, and before Richie can prevent him-

“Stan, are you okay?” Bill holds onto his waist gently, leaning over him a little, “I’m sorry…I can’t. Time out.”

Stan sighs, and pushes himself up on his elbows, looking at Bill over his shoulder, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“I know…I’m sorry…I hit you so hard, I didn’t mean to.”

“_I’m okay_,” Stan assures gently, wincing as Bill dabs at the corner of his mouth with his shirt sleeve, “I just bit my lip. I’m fine.”

“I’m…awful at this. I just- I hate hurting you.”

“I know.” Stan pushes himself further upright, “You don’t have to indulge _everything_, you know?”

“I just…want you to be satisfied.”

Stan’s expression softens a little, but he looks amused, “Well, you do quite a good job of that, on your own. This is just…_additional_. It’s not compulsory, I promise.”

Bill sighs, and Stan observes the wrinkle of worry in his brow.

“_Stop_ overthinking it,” Stan says firmly, but his voice is gentle. He leans back against Bill, kisses his cheek, reaches up to stroke his thumb across the edge of his jaw, “It doesn’t matter how it happens, it matters who it’s with.”

Eddie has shifted closer to Stan on the countertop, now, and he’s holding his face, examining his cheek, and his swollen lip, poking at it, “We need to put some ice on this right after.”

Richie is at his side, leaning against the counter with both arms, watching Bill and Stan.

“What, so, are we allowed to be nice to you now?” Richie prods at Stan’s bare stomach, “I mean, not that I don’t _love_ watching you get slapped in the face, but I also just kinda wanna see that glossy look in your eyes you always get when you’re getting fucked. That would be nice.”

Stan gives him an incredulous look, but there’s a smirk on his lips, too. He can feel Bill’s hands on his waist, getting antsy. Rough, degrading or not, he knows for a _fact_ that Bill can soothe that ache in his body, without even trying. _God_, he wants him to.

And he doesn’t have to ask.

Slightly rough fingertips, with a juxtaposing tender touch, graze down his sides, into the waistband of the expensive underwear on his hips, slowly tugging it down. Eddie’s line of sight instantly shifts downward, but he still has a hold of Stan’s face, and with it, he leans in to place the softest kisses across his bruising cheek. Richie comes back, too, to Stan’s side, rubs his wide palm across Eddie’s fading nail marks on Stan’s chest as he presses in close to Bill, whispering to him quietly enough that Stan can’t make out what he’s saying, even from this proximity.

He feels a finger probe into him, then another shortly afterwards, both Bill’s, and he braces himself with his hands against the edge of the countertop. It’s cold…wet…there’s definitely lubrication, but he doesn’t know where they got it from. He doesn’t really care. Eddie is watching him closely.

It’s when he feels a _third_ finger press its way in above the others – definitely Richie’s – and there are hands on his back, and one gripping his waist tightly, that arousal really begins to pulse through his veins, and his breath shakes.

“Oh, he’s cracking!” Eddie says quickly, and Stan scoffs, shakes his head.

He hears the distinctive sound of a belt buckle being unfastened, and shortly the fingers inside him pull free to make way for something _far_ better.

He feels Bill enter him, firm hands steadying his hips, shaking breath at his ear as Bill presses up against his back, and he can’t help the way he shudders in response. Eddie closes in at his front, then, hands resting low on his waist, just above Bill’s, bracing him, and mouthing at Stan’s shoulder as Bill begins to move, rocking him forward. He feels light-headed already.

Stan curses the lack of skin-to-skin contact, though, feeling Bill’s flannel shirt against his back, and denim against the backs of his thighs. As though reading his mind, though, Richie is quick to remedy this new irritation, unbuttoning Bill’s shirt, tugging it off his shoulders from behind, lifting his t-shirt off over his head. All the while, Bill keeps up his rhythm, and Stan is _so_ grateful. He doesn’t say so, would never verbalise it, but he slides his fingers over Bill’s hand on his hip, gives it a squeeze.

The rhythm speeds up. Richie behind Bill. Eddie in front of Stan. The two of them are very encouraging, Richie, with his hands sliding all over Bill’s stomach and chest, hissing _filthy_ things into his ear, urging him to go faster, harder. And Eddie, pressing ever-closer, thighs gripping at Stan’s waist, now, grazing his fingernails all over Stan’s bare back as he watches Bill fuck him, his own breath shaking a little.

“_You’re so fucking good, Bill_,” Stan hears Richie whisper to him, less-than-quietly, this time, “_You’re so fucking hot_.”

Stan tries to stifle the brief groan that escapes him when Bill bucks forward, but it’s too late for that, all three of them hear it. Eddie hears it most, letting out a short curse in response, and reaching around to get his hands on Stan’s lower back, eyes locked with Bill’s.

“_Harder, Bill,_” He breathes, close to Stan’s ear, and Stan feels Bill tense behind him.

But he does it. And with this new speed, hands all over him, lip still throbbing, Eddie begging to Bill right in his ear, Richie’s dirty praises, Stan feels pleasure spreading through his veins faster than it usually happens for him.

He drops his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder, curses his moment of weakness, but it’s a short-lived worry. Eddie’s fingers tighten possessively against his back, and Bill, who he knows must be watching his every move, curses softly, deepening his thrusts.

“_Come on, Billy_,” Richie hisses softly, “_Make him come_.”

There are several more minutes of this, the kitchen filled with the feral sound of skin hitting skin, hot, panting breath, cursing and gasping and Richie, being Richie, filling the gaps where there’s no speech with vulgar encouragements to the both of them, and sometimes to Eddie, too.

Stan can usually remain somewhat lucid during sex, mostly because he’s normally the one taking somebody apart, but in this instance, he can barely string a thought together. Bill _really_ has him this time, angling in _just_ the right way, keeping up the same quick, deep pace all the way through without faltering. He can’t help the way his breath shudders and his thighs tremble as he leans into Eddie’s chest, begging himself not to lose face _too_ much by-

“_Oh, Bill_…”

Too late for _that_.

Clearly that was too much for Bill, too, though. Stan feels Bill’s hips stutter, hands slipping a little on his waist and breath coming in sudden, short bursts as he releases inside him. He knows Bill is going to slow down, maybe even stop, but _he doesn’t want that_…_he can’t have that_…_he was so close_…

“_Don’t stop_,” Stan growls, willing it to come out assertive, but it doesn’t…it sounds weak…like begging.

Bill comes back to life immediately, though, fingers shaking on Stan’s hips as he brings back the same pace and angle. Stan is beginning to lose all control of his own mouth now, it seems, gasping pathetically into Eddie’s shoulder when Bill starts moving again.

“_K-keep going_,” Eddie says quickly to Bill, eyes fixed on Stan’s face, brushing back his curls with his fingers.

“_Yeah. C’mon, Bill, he’s gonna come. Make him come_,” Richie adds, ever-so helpfully.

Stan would be annoyed if it weren’t true.

He’s biting into his already split lip so hard when he does come, with a harsh groan, that he can taste blood in his mouth again, sees a single spot of it drop onto Eddie’s thigh. He has enough sense to quickly release it afterwards, though, gasping for breath. He feels three pairs of hands, now, against his back, his shoulders, his waist, his stomach, stroking at his skin, soothing him down as he regains his composure.

He hisses through gritted teeth when Bill pulls free.

They’re a mess of bare limbs, sitting on the kitchen floor, after that, Eddie, beside Stan, holding a bag of ice wrapped up in a towel against Stan’s cheek. Bill is at Stan’s other side, repeatedly turning to kiss his cheek and his temple. Then there’s Richie beside Bill, yawning and stretching his gangly arms.

“Who’s gonna clean up? Dibs not me.”

“’Dibs?’ Rich, you’re thirty-nine years old, you can’t call dibs on not cleaning our kitchen,” Bill sniggers.

“Joke’s on you, I just did.”

“I’ll do it. None of you will do it properly, anyway,” Stan cuts in.

“I mean…I _would_ do it, but you guys know how I feel about blood, right? Stan’s blood is all over the counter.”

“Thanks to Bill,” Stan adds dryly.

Bill looks at him, “Please don’t do that. I already feel terrible.”

“How’re you gonna explain that at work tomorrow?” Richie asks, amused, as he leans forward and points at Stan’s cheek, which is now visibly bruising, and his swollen lip.

“I’ll tell them the truth; my husband hit me.”

Bill looks uncomfortable, “That’s not funny.”

Stan laughs. Bill watches him for a while, then sniggers and shakes his head.

“Well…” Stan rests his head against Bill’s shoulder, feeling surprisingly relaxed, “At least I don’t have a headache anymore.”


End file.
